


Night Shift At St Mungo's

by Vaysh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, St Mungo's Hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy, Healer-in-charge at St Mungo's Hospital, is called for an emergency on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Shift At St Mungo's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassisluna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassisluna/gifts).



Healer Malfoy stormed along the crowded corridor and almost stumbled into the over-sized Christmas tree that had miraculously appeared in the reception area a week before the Winter Solstice.

"Salazar! Do we need a forest in here?" He shot a deadly glare at the Welcome Witch who immediately ducked behind her desk. The sign above her, with _Inquiries_ painted in squiggly letters onto it, swayed ominously at the sight of Draco's wrath.

 _Trees!_ When did it happen that perfectly fine firs were draped with baubles, fairies and garlands made of Muggle popcorn, of all things? Draco recalled, with fondness, the Winter Solstice celebrations in the Manor, when the farmers brought in the huge Yule log that burned in the drawing room's fire-place for all of the twelve days of Christmas.

He looked around the crowded reception area. It was plain amazing what kind of accidents people got themselves into on what was supposed to be a solemn evening of quiet celebration. There were at least three wizards who had flown a broom while under the influence, with the predictable results: broken legs, broken noses and fractured collarbones. One witch who was missing her entire backside – Splinching accident, was Draco's guess. And there were a lot of red dripping noses, lots of noisy sniffling and blowing into handkerchiefs of every colour and size imaginable. The common flu struck wizarding kind just like Muggles and Muggleborns. The latter _being_ wizarding kind, of course, Draco quickly added in his mind. But why was he being called – by St Mungo's emergency owl, too – down here? He did not see anyone who may have accidentally downed the wrong potion, or was in need of Pepper-Up or a Hangover Remedy or anything else that fell into Draco's area of expertise. He was, after all, the Healer-in-charge of the third floor of St Mungo's.

Draco turned towards the Welcome Witch, Claire Something-or-other, if he remembered correctly. "Why was I cal–"

He never finished the question. A half-strangled scream, full of pain, echoed through the reception area. The Splinched witch turned her missing back towards Draco, the incessant sniffling came to an abrupt halt. Draco struggled for breath. A male voice, much deeper when it was not screaming in agony. He knew that voice, knew how free it sounded with laughter, how excited when the wind tore at it, how needy below Draco in their warm wide bed.

All eyes were drawn to a cluster of red close to the entrance where half a dozen… Aurors! Aurors were standing there or kneeling, all still in uniforms, some coats torn to shreds, others discoloured to a muddy brown from heat or fire or some wicked sort of magic. Draco registered blood smears on the faces.

He did not make up his mind to walk towards them. His feet were moving with a will of their own. Red hair, impossible to miss, meant Weasley was standing close to whoever was injured so badly that he'd screamed in pain.

"You promised me, Weasley," Draco muttered. "You bloody promised me."

Ron Weasley quickly turned to him, and his face, already pale under the freckles and splatters of blood, became even paler. The Auror badge was glinting on his chest, the three dark stripes the only sign that he was second-in-command to the Head Auror. Draco wondered whether Robards would have called Gringotts, to get a Curse-breaker on an emergency case, but then the wizard on the floor moaned and he had to look at him, look at the man who was at the centre of the group. Smethwyck from the Dal Llewellyn Ward, all in lime green, crouched over him, chanting quiet incantations.

Healer Smethwyck, who barely spoke a word to Draco but would give his life for the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Old school, a life-time of experience, a Dumbledore man through and through. If anyone could save –

Draco squinted through drops of wetness that somehow had accumulated around his eyes. He allowed himself to look at Harry, look at him fully and take in the damage done. Harry had worn protective gear, at least, even when the dragon skin jacket was half melted away on his chest. Draco did a quick inventory: hair gone ( _wild black strands flying in the wind_ ), eyebrow singed away, left eye swollen shut and bloodied, lips busted ( _dry and cracked, so sweet to kiss_ ), vicious blisters on every patch of skin that was not covered by clothes or armour. Stupid, stupid Potter, to never wear gauntlets, what with his obsession with Fire Curses. His hands ( _blunt, strong, gentle fingers, carding through Draco's hair_ ) were burnt to stumps.

The air in the reception area seemed full of ash, there was the stingy odour of something wet and burning. Draco found he had to lean against Weasley, or else he would have gone down on his knees, on the floor red with blood where Harry was lying. Arms were circling around his waist ( _not Harry's arms_ ) and he was slumping against Weasley.

"You promised not to call him on Christmas. You promised not to call him. Not tonight." Draco's words were a mumble against Weasley's uniform. Snow, magic, fire, fear – Draco could smell all of it.

"We had a lunatic set Fiendfyre lose in the holding cells. I had to call Harry." Weasley's voice was shaking, a stuttering rumble at Draco's cheek.

Draco wanted to step away from Weasley, get to Harry but his legs still didn't feel as if they'd hold him upright. Over Weasley's shoulder he could see how Smethwyck Levitated Harry, holding him at waist-level before him. Smethwyck raised his wand.

 _No!_ Draco did not trust healing spells more complicated than your standard _Episkey_. There was something Muggle about them ( _not that he'd ever say that aloud_ ), forcing the body to heal instead of enticing it with a potion to heal itself. It was part of why he did not trust Smethwyck, and why Smethwyck had never been able to look beyond Draco's Dark Mark. The first and third floor never got along at St Mungo's but it was more personal now, with _Harry_ the target of whatever spell Smethwyck's meant to cast on him.

Draco shoved Weasley away, hard and fast. Weasley was so surprised he lost his balance and took two Aurors with him when he crashed to the floor. Draco's knees miraculously had got their strength back, and he pushed the remaining Aurors out of the way. It was just Smethwyck between him and Harry, and Draco covered the distance with two long strides.

"Keep the bloody Death Eater off my back," Smethwyck muttered. Or something like it, Draco was not quite sure he heard right. Smethwyck would not dare to –

" _Stupefy!_ "

Draco saw the red light half a second after Weasley'd cast the spell, and then it was too late. He thought, _Harry_ and _don't die_ and passed out.

*

Draco had never in his life smoked a cigarette but he had watched enough Muggle movies with Harry to long for one now. It was a shame, really, there was no cigarette machine in the Tea Room.

He had awoken hours ago on the uncomfortable couch in his lab. Since then he'd been walking grooves into hardwood floors, first in his lab, and now in the Tea Room where he'd gone for a spot of tea. The Assam was lukewarm and smelled like soap. Draco had not taken one sip from it. He could not _drink tea_ when Smethwyck was fighting (with his dratted spells, no less) for Harry's life. Claire Fawcett (Draco belatedly remembered the last name of the Welcome Witch) was checking in on him every hour or so, bringing news from the first floor.

Healer-in charge Malfoy himself was not allowed on the first floor, healer's orders. Draco had been livid for full six minutes when he'd realised a magical barrier would not let him Apparate or walk down the stairs. He had made a silent vow to have Smethwyck in retirement before the end of year, no matter how. There were potions, undetectable ones, that brought on senility prematurely.

Harry Potter would live, had been Claire Fawcett's first message.

His eyes were fine, her second.

Harry was given Skele-Gro for his hands, came the news after three hours of waiting. Thank Merlin for Smethwyck realising he did need potions, after all.

His hair already started to grow back, news that Draco could have predicted. There was no getting rid of that crow's nest that posed as Harry's hair.

Four in the morning, Draco was finally allowed back down. By then he had figured out that it must have been Claire Fawcett who had called him to the reception area in the first place, when Harry had been brought in. He'd always thought she had a thing for Harry ( _and, Salazar-from-the-fen, who of the entire bloody St Mungo's staff did not have a thing for the Saviour of the Wizarding World!?_ ) but apparently she liked them both. Flowers were in order, Draco decided, and perhaps something could be done to advance Fawcett's rising through the ranks from Welcome Witch to Healer-in-training in Potions and Plant Poisoning.

Draco stumbled down the stairs after Claire Fawcett had rushed in to tell him Smethwyck had left for the night. She'd reported some insult by Smethwyck, about now being the time to get _the fool of a husband_ but Draco had been out the door before she'd finished that bit of news. He took the four flights of stairs in under twelve seconds, leaped through the spot where the magical barrier had been before, and then – all of sudden – slowed his steps. Harry was behind a green door where someone had sloppily spelled his name on. A coven of Weasleys were asleep on a long bench opposite the door.

What if Harry couldn't walk anymore? Draco stopped before the door. What if his magic was impaired? What, Draco wondered frozen to the spot, if Harry had lost his memory? What if he did not remember him?

"Go in," someone said quietly from the bench, and Draco realised it was Granger cuddled up to Weasley, who was snoring loudly. "He's waiting for you."

Nothing for it, then. Draco slipped into the room and found himself in a muted gloom. He saw Harry at once because you could never miss Harry, no matter where he was. His hair was short, which was an unusual sight but otherwise he looked normal. A bit pasty, maybe, but that could be due to the light. Tired, yes, but who wouldn't look tired after a night like this?

"Draco..."

Green eyes. Open; alive. Looking at Draco with the usual glint of amusement. With fond recognition. Something was loosening in Draco's chest, a stone the size of a mill wheel, it felt like. He would let Weasley live. He would put up with Healer Smethwyck for as long as the old crock could shuffle about. He would not demand a cigarette machine was installed in the Tea Room, and he'd even let the bad quality Assam slide. He would, though, have flowers delivered to Claire Fawcett, a grand bouquet of sunflowers and bright red tulips. For Harry _was alive_.

Draco advanced to the bed, registering the bandaged hands and chest and the pink spots of newly healed skin in Harry's face and on his arms. One eyebrow was still missing. But, honestly, who cared about eyebrows?

"And? You're not going to say anything?" There was maybe a bit of a slur in Harry's voice. The Skele-Gro, Draco assumed. Or whatever Smethwyck had given him for the pain.

Draco's legs were giving out underneath him, and he dropped on the side of the bed. Harry moved his bandaged arm to steady him at once but Draco didn't need steadying. Not now when he could sit beside Harry. Draco took the bandaged hand ( _so frail_ ) and cradled it in his lap. Gently. Because Harry was hurt. Draco could feel the Skele-Gro doing its work beneath his touch.

"I thought..." He had to clear his throat. "I mean, what do you think about bringing one of those trees in. Seeing as you _are_ going to spend Christmas in St Mungo's. _Again_ , I might add. I could have it decorated in no time. The Welcome Witch, did you see her, buxomly, blond one, Claire Fawcett? I am sure I could get her to make some popcorn garlands, and I seem to remember Mother had Banished some garish red baubles to the attic a couple of –

Harry's lips were dry and cracked, he tasted of Murtlap and cabbage but no kiss had ever been sweeter. Draco tried to be careful but he couldn't, not really. It didn't feel as if Harry minded when tongues got involved and a bit of teeth.

"Merry Christmas," Harry whispered in the small space between them, and the odd wetness was back around Draco's eyes. He couldn't say a word, and so he pulled Harry in for another kiss, cradling Harry's hands to his heart.

_fin_


End file.
